


Impossible Futures

by karuvapatta



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Lucifer Isn't Very Forgiving, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 04:23:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19863433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karuvapatta/pseuds/karuvapatta
Summary: “You defied me,” Lucifer said. “That merits some sort of punishment, does it not?"





	Impossible Futures

It was a soggy, rainy Thursday afternoon. The sort of days London was famous for; perfect for curling in a comfortable chair with a cup of hot drink and literally nothing else. They hadn’t even bothered with opening the shop today. Apparently not everyone understood that.

“We are most definitely closed—” Aziraphale said. Then froze.

Behind him, Crowley tensed. Was it Gabriel? It had to be. The bastard had it out for Aziraphale and was just looking for an excuse to be rid of him, all under the guise of Heavenly wisdom.

He circled Aziraphale’s still form, eyeing the dark corners of the bookshop. He had placed enough wards around the damned place to cause _at least_ a serious headache to any angel other than _his_ angel. Oddly, he felt none of their presence. They were alone, save for—

Oh. Oh _no_.

“Hello, Crowley,” the man said.

He was shaped like a man. Tall, handsome, well-dressed, with pale skin and golden hair. The eyes gave him away instantly, burning a pure molten gold. The air around him shimmered with heat – as he picked up a book from the shelf, the dry paper began to char around the edges, a thin line of bright orange consuming it slowly.

Lucifer frowned.

“I never got the hang of a mortal form,” he said, raising his hand to eye-level. The skin was almost translucent, letting through the fire burning beneath. “It’s so annoyingly fragile.”

Crowley remembered Lucifer as he used to be: brilliant, lighting up stars in the sky. Such power wasn’t meant to be contained by human flesh. And yet he had made a valiant effort, up to and including creating a fashionable suit to go with it.

The book in his grip was almost gone; the smoke curling upwards threatened to set off the fire alarm Crowley had installed in the place. Lucifer set it aside and turned his gleaming golden eyes on Aziraphale.

Halfway through the motion, Crowley realized he had stepped forward, _towards_ the Devil, so as to get between the two. Aziraphale hadn’t moved; frozen in time, most likely, his expression stricken with shock, hands folded firmly together. He had been smiling mere moments before, at something silly Crowley had said, _at Crowley_ , with such open fondness Crowley had managed to forget everything else.

Lucifer arched his brows.

“Ah,” he said. “ _Interesting_.”

His voice suggested that it wasn’t, not very. Wasn’t like there was anything Crowley could actually do, and they both knew it.

“You defied me,” Lucifer said. “That merits some sort of punishment, does it not? Would be fitting to just—” he raised a hand towards Aziraphale’s still face. It burned outwardly now, pure Hellfire; it would consume Aziraphale entirely were he to bring his hand a few inches closer.

“No—” Crowley whispered.

“No,” Lucifer agreed. “Not yet, anyway.”

He closed his fist. The fire went out. Only now did Crowley realize he had fallen to his knees at some point, as if begging might have the chance of working.

“I went through your reports with great interest,” Lucifer went on, and Crowley’s blood ran that much colder. All the little lies and omissions, accumulating across six millennia—“And I think you are due a promotion.”

“…what?” Crowley croaked out.

Lucifer ran his burning fingers down Crowley’s sharp cheek.

“You _get_ it, don’t you? In that wretched pit they built around me, you are the only one who does.”

Crowley didn’t get it. He didn’t understand anything at this point, but so long as Lucifer’s hands were on him, they weren’t on Aziraphale. That was good enough.

“It’s about choices, Crowley,” Lucifer said, exasperated. “They must have a choice, and they must choose evil. What’s the point otherwise? But you--” his grip tightened. “You gave them opportunities to seek their own damnation. You clever, clever bastard.”

He stepped back. Crowley scrambled to his feet, his skin tender where Lucifer had been touching it; he caught Aziraphale’s hand and clung to it, never mind that it was cold and still.

“One more chance,” Lucifer said. “And I do not say this lightly. One more chance to prove yourself to me.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered.

“Yes. Obviously.” Lucifer shrugged. “It’s been thousands of years since the last angel fell. And it was a sight to behold – She had made us to be perfect, obedient, useful. But we rebelled against the purpose that defined us, and made ourselves anew.”

 _That’s one way of putting it_ , Crowley thought disdainfully. Arrogant, selfish, overpowered, son of a—

“It’s not much of a choice, is it?” he said, because apparently he had a death wish. “Corrupt Aziraphale, or what, watch him die?”

“To you it may not be,” Lucifer said, deeply amused. “To him, however—”

He snapped his fingers. Aziraphale blinked and looked around. They were alone again, but the half-burned book was still there to remind them of Lucifer’s visit.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley? What’s wrong?”

Crowley looked helplessly at his angel and tried to find the words to explain.


End file.
